The Diagnosis
by messyhead
Summary: This is the only story I've written that conforms to canon. It takes place after the last reunion movie. Thanks to OJFan for her input and to the Bionic Project for support, and to Melchycat for reminding me that Oscar would be a fan of Cole Porter music.
1. Chapter 1

Jaime Sommers – former tennis champ, government operative, schoolteacher, and now psychologist - blew a wayward strand of hair away from her face and chided herself for being so incredibly grumpy. There wasn't any single item in the pile she resented – it was the pile itself. Why did everything have to happen at once? Her day at the office had been very full – in fact she had packed in two extra sessions in an effort to keep up, which had been a mistake. Beset by sleepiness in the late afternoon, she could only hope the two clients hadn't noticed. Still, the pile of work was a clear sign that she was a success – her practice was brimming with patients, and underneath the grumpiness she was extremely pleased.

In one of life's ridiculous contrasts, after listening to heart rending human problems all day, here she was flipping through a Martha Stewart hors d'oeuvres cookbook, filled with fussy little mouthfuls that would take forever to prepare. These 'horse ovaries' (as she used to call them - her younger self thought she was funnier than she actually was) were for a very special occasion – in honor of a very special person. The OSI had recently downgraded the security levels on Rudy Wells's bionics work up to 1980. This meant that the country's leading physicians and bio-engineers would be given access to his remarkable legacy, and as a result he would finally receive some of the recognition he deserved.

While with him, Jaime rarely forgot that when she was in the presence of a true genius (albeit in a very unassuming package). It pained her that due to the nature of his work, he was not allowed take his place in the history books, where he belonged. Rudy was thrilled with this latest development – not for the recognition, but because he had long dreamed that his work might eventually benefit more than one or two lucky government operatives, and now that dream could come true. His discoveries would be disseminated and improved and carried forward – not shoved into a _Top Secret_ envelope and pushed into a filing cabinet never to be seen again. For Jaime and Steve this meant that they would have to submit to being trotted out for show and tell, but neither of them minded one bit - they owed Rudy everything.

Jaime was less pleased about heading back into the lab for what Rudy flatly referred to as "upgrades" to her bionic skin. Tinkering with bionics took time, and as hers worked just fine she took the _If it ain't broke, don't fix it_ position. But Steve and Oscar had convinced her. It would be an improvement in quality of life they said, an opportunity to feel just a little bit more human. Long ago she had given up worrying about whether she was a whole human, (she was) but she had to admit she was intrigued, and so she agreed. It was going to take more time, but once again, she could refuse Rudy nothing.

Finally, the cherry on top of this rather unmanageable sundae, was that the very weekend they were expecting Michael and Heather and the girls, there was a conference in Boston on Attachment theory. How she had not caught wind of it till now she couldn't imagine – usually she scoured the journals for just these sorts of events. In fact, she had been hoping for such a gathering - being deeply interested in the subject and woefully ignorant about it. Somehow she had a suspicion that this scheduling conflict was going to be a problem for her husband.

_____

"No way, Jaime!" Steve blurted. "Michael's coming."

"I know, honey." she replied evenly. "I wouldn't dream of bringing it up unless it was really important."

"You can't go." he insisted. "This is family. This is _more_ important."

"Is that an _order_ Colonel?" she said, managing to keep her voice steady as her internal thermometer jumped upward.

"No, it's not an order! But I'd like to have my wife by my side when we have grandchildren coming to visit!"

The words _Your grandchildren!_ sprung into Jaime's head - but remained unvoiced.

It still had the power to shock her. After knowing Steve almost all her life, after having been engaged all those years earlier, after she had lost her memory of their love and recovered it in middle age, while she was starry eyed and newly in love with her old love, he finally told her the story of his marriage to Karen twenty five years after the fact. As if that weren't shocking enough, there was a second, more astonishing revelation. Steve had a son, a boy he hardly knew, and had never mentioned. Worst of all, Karen had died, and Steve, believing his life was too unstable to include a child, had handed Michael over to his sister in law.

It was a good thing Steve had brought it up while the bloom was on their romance, because it allowed Jaime to accept what might have otherwise been a difficult pill to swallow. Her first impulse was to help him mend and nurture his relationship with his son, and to welcome the young man into their lives. She knew that Steve was deeply ashamed of that part of his life. As someone who had always tried (and mostly succeeded) to "do the right thing", the neglect of his son was the most spectacular failure of his life – and Jaime knew it ate at him, undermining his belief in himself, and his confidence in all his decisions.

A year into their marriage, Steve began to refer to Michael as "our son". Perhaps it was partly a way of cementing Jaime's position into his life, and a way to extricate Karen from his memory. (He often told Jaime that life began anew when she came back to him.) Somewhere in her, mostly dormant, was a tiny, ungenerous, drop of anger– that he had never told her about Michael, and worse, the ways in which he had rationalized his lack of involvement in the boy's life.

Now, belatedly, Steve doted on Michael, rushed around after him on visits, bought extravagant gifts for the girls, paid lavish compliments to Heather - trying hard to be a good Dad and Grandfather. Jaime felt for him, and she was touched by the earnestness of his efforts. So she blotted up that drop of anger with kindness. Moments like this however, it seeped into her heart and colored all her reactions.

It was not surprising she felt this way – in fact it was quite a legitimate response, but she would have preferred to let it go, once and for all.

It didn't help that, try as she might, she couldn't get herself to really _like_ Michael. He had been a chilly and bland young man when she met him, and was no more enchanting in his late thirties. Heather was too materialistic for Jaime's tastes, but she was pleasant enough, and she meant well. Their girls, Amber, nine, and Paris, five, were a delight, and Jaime enjoyed her role as Grandma with them – especially when she could get them involved in activities that didn't involve malls and shopping.

Steve stood rooted to the kitchen floor, one side of his face ticking upward to into an uneasy squint. He was not the world's most emotionally expressive man, but Jaime knew every expression as well as if he had sung them all out to guitar accompaniment. He couldn't quite face Michael and family all by himself. He was frustrated with her, and he was worried about making her angry.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve Austin, high school football hero, Air Force pilot, Viet Nam vet, astronaut, government agent, frequent savior of humankind, charter boat owner and operator, was now getting very close to sixty years old. Occasionally some codger recognized him or his name, but mostly he was, to all appearances, a regular guy. He had slowed, thickened, and mellowed with the years. No longer was he that restless adventure seeker he had once been. In fact, he had gone in the opposite direction. He was laid back, easygoing, and not one bit ambitious.

He took the last bite of his steak sandwich, wiped his mouth, leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the TV overhead. On screen the baseball game was proceeding into the fifth inning.

"Martinez isn't what he used to be." he commented.

"He's still a good pitcher." Oscar Goldman grumbled.

"Sure." Steve replied, his tone ever so slightly patronizing. He hoped this would further annoy his old friend into tart defense of his favorite player, but he was disappointed. Once so easy to tease, Oscar had changed over the years too. In his prime, when Steve had met him, the boss had to camouflage his easygoing nature with a hard authoritative shell. Now the shell had thickened. Of course Steve knew why. Once the alpha male of the OSI, his position as top dog unassailable, Oscar had wielded enormous power in Washington. Now he was an old man, and the younger men watched him closely, hungrily, waiting for the moment he would stumble, so they bring him down and take his place. Oscar, in response, had gotten stiffer, tougher, and even sharper.

Then 9/11 happened, and the American Intelligence community was thrown into enormous upheaval. The attack was a devastating indictment – and even though it was the job of the NSB and the CIA to have uncovered the plot, Oscar took the incident very personally. Steve felt sorry for him – at the point he should have been collecting his gold watch and feeling satisfied with a fine career, the very ground had shifted under him, and Steve knew he struggled to contend with this dark new landscape every single day.

Every so often Colonel Austin would pick his former boss up at the office and they would stroll to a nearby sports bar for lunch, where, if he could get Oscar to loosen up sufficiently, they would talk about baseball, and the old days, and the latest great catch on Steve's charter boat. Despite the passage of years and many disagreements, they still got along well. He glanced at his companion's unfinished soup and salad.

"You're not eating?"

"I'm not hungry." Oscar replied, leaning back with a small grimace.

"You want another scotch? I'm going to have another beer, as long as you don't rat me out to the warden."

"The who?" Oscar frowned.

"The warden – Jaime."

"The warden." Oscar repeated, shifting irritably in his chair. "Jesus Christ."

"Hey," Steve protested, " - easy. I'm just kidding. What's the matter with you anyway? You're a real ray of sunshine today."

" I didn't play Yenta all those years for you to be calling Jaime 'the warden.'"

"I'm kidding." Steve replied, laughing incredulously. This was so unlike Oscar he couldn't even feel defensive. "What's going on with you?"

"My back hurts." Oscar leaned forward and pressed his hand to the offending area. "I don't know what I did to it, but it hurts like hell. Has for a week now."

"You gonna see a doctor?"

"Yeah. I have an appointment this afternoon. In fact…" he glanced at his watch, "I'd better get moving. Is it your turn to buy or mine?"

"Yours." Steve replied confidently.

"You always say that."

"Don't worry about it. I got it."

"Thanks." Oscar said, rising from his chair. "I guess I'll see you Saturday, if not before."

Steve watched his old friend stiffly push his arms through the sleeves of his trench coat as he headed for the door, the crowd at the front parting respectfully to let him pass. He still had that look about him – the imposing look of an old Washingtonian pro. People paid attention.

Turning back to the TV screen, Steve settled into his chair. The Dodgers were leading the Red Sox two to one – a close game, so he was obviously going to have to hang around to see them through to the win. Besides, there was nothing else on his agenda - one of his favorite customers had cancelled his booking, so he was at loose ends.

He loved loose ends – those days when no one knew where he was or expected anything from him. It made him feel like he was cutting class, something he didn't do enough of when he was young. An overachiever all his life, he now relished his laidback existence. If only Jaime relished a laidback existence too, everything would have been perfect. Thirty years ago he would have insisted on a stay at home wife, but the world had rolled right over that expectation, and he had had to adjust, albeit reluctantly.

Anyway, Jaime wouldn't have tolerated it – she would have been miserable and bitter without her work, and though he wished she could find all of her happiness in him, he had come to realize that was not a reasonable expectation. Maybe if they had had kids, she wouldn't have needed the career – but there was no payoff in thinking that way. It just made him sad.

What was it about that lunch that had left him feeling uneasy? Casting around in his mind for the source of his discomfort, he realized he was feeling a touch guilty - for calling Jaime 'the warden'. Some of his clients made a hobby of complaining about their wives, and it had obviously rubbed off on him. To be fair to himself though, Jaime _was_ a powerful and willful woman, and on one hand he admired her for it, but on the other it sometimes didn't sit well in the context of their marriage. A couple of weeks ago he had proposed to her that she cut back her hours and start coming out on the boat with him more often, but she hadn't taken the idea seriously. He would bring it up again, he decided, after the party was dealt with and things had settled down a bit.

XXXXXXXXX

_Why do I even bother?_ Jaime wondered to herself as she scrubbed furiously at a saucepan.

"Where do the martini glasses go?" Steve queried, staring helplessly at the cupboards overhead.

"Top right." she replied tersely. They should have been good at this. They had the right qualities to be great hosts. She was warm and outgoing, Steve was good at putting people at ease, there was much to be celebrated – the evening should have been a roaring success.

"It was a great party, Sweetheart." Steve said reassuringly. He knew perfectly well that she knew perfectly well that given a choice between throwing a party and shoving a hot poker in his eye, Steve would likely choose the hot poker, but in his mind, the party _had _gone well.

"Is it us? Our last dinner party – where we had the neighbors over - that stank too."

"That's because we didn't know that the Hibbards and the Stillmans hated Gloria. You can't always know what's going on with people."

"Well there sure was something going on with people tonight! Louise was strung so tight I thought she'd snap, and Rudy – well, Rudy did pretty well but I noticed every moment he was on his own, he'd kind of deflate. He looked so sad – did you notice that Steve? He looked sad."

Steve regarded his wife and wondered how it was anyone could get themselves into such a lather over something as inconsequential as a party. For his part, he was feeling pleasantly sauced and pleased it was over. "I thought he was okay. He's under a lot of pressure, and he's not as young as springtime."

"I don't think that's it. He looked pleased as punch when he was talking science with the scientists, but every time he talked to me I thought he was going to cry. Made me wonder if he has bad news about this new epidermis project."

"I doubt it. He'd just tell us. He's not shy about his failures." Steve picked up a glass and began to wipe it dry.

"And _Oscar_ – what was with him tonight? He was in a weird mood."

"Probably his back was bothering him."

"His back?" Jaime queried, turning to face her husband.

"Yeah, he mentioned it when we were having lunch the other day. How about these – where do these go?" Steve held up one of Jaime's beautiful heirloom champagne glasses.

"How long have you lived in this house?"

"Listen lady, do you know where we keep the Phillips screws?"

"As a matter of fact I _do_ think I know where we keep the Phillips screws." she replied smugly. "Those go right next to the martini glasses you just put away."

She rinsed the saucepan and put it in the rack. She wasn't about to tell Steve just _how_ odd Oscar had been. At one point, part way through the evening, she and Steve were side by side in the kitchen, Jaime frantically preparing more of the little smoked salmon crackers, while he mixed drinks.

"Not _too_ strong…" she reminded him. His cocktails were known to reduce guests to burbling idiots within an hour. Shortly after Steve had swept out, tray brimming with drinks, she heard Oscar speak behind her.

"You should have married me." he said.

"Boy, you're not kidding." she replied, wheeling around, expecting to find him wearing a mischievous grin. Instead, he was dead serious, every bit as stony faced as when he was talking about dirty bombs threats from the Middle East.

Jaime was herself a little drunk – she'd swilled a two glasses of wine in an attempt to make herself relaxed and chatty – and she stared a moment or two before murmuring, "I…don't recall…you making a proposal…"

"I couldn't face the rejection." he replied, flatly. "We would have been good together."

Just then the raucous bio-engineer from San Diego burst into the kitchen in search of chip dip, and Oscar slipped away. Somehow he had avoided her for the rest of the night – not that she minded. She was too busy playing hostess, and frankly she was irritated. At best it was a stupid thing to say in the context of a party, and at worst it was the sort of statement that destabilizes comfortable relationships.

"When is he going to retire, anyway?" she asked, cleaning out the bowl containing the remnants of devilled egg. "He's what – seventy two? Shouldn't they put him out to pasture?"

"The only way Oscar will leave the OSI is on a gurney with a tag on his toe."


	3. Chapter 3

It had been twenty-five years since Jaime had visited a regular general practitioner, but she hadn't forgotten dull anxiety of waiting for the doctor. Sitting on that vinyl half bed thing with the stirrups at the end and the crinkly paper over top, in a small square room painted beige, under the pall of fluorescent lights, waiting to be poked and prodded and tapped - there was something demeaning about it, and now, even though she was visiting someone who was anything but a GP – instead a trusted friend who knew her body better than she did - the feeling was exactly the same.

She placed her hands on her thighs and spread the fingers. The left hand looked like it belonged to a fifty-five year old woman, while the right hand – her bionic hand - would have fit on a thirty year old. Most people got to age quietly without the constant reminder of how they used to look. Comparing the two, it was shocking to see how much the texture of her real skin had changed. It was rough and practical looking - while the right hand still wore the blush of youth – tight, fresh and pearly.

_How did Rudy do it?_ she wondered for the millionth time. There was no one else in the world like him; there couldn't be another with that extraordinary breadth of knowledge and pure creative genius. His attention to detail was incredible. Jaime used to joke with him that if he ever got tired of bionics he could go work at Madame Tussaud's wax museum and show them how perfect imitation of the human form is done. He was as much artist as scientist.

She had become very fond of her remarkable bionic arm. It had been a faithful friend to her. Where once she was distressed to be part machine, now she loved her old limbs the same way you love an old car - except much more so. Though she was pleased about getting some upgrades, she would miss this right hand - not that the whole hand was changing - it was just the skin. Rudy had been tinkering away quietly in his spare moments, building a high tech epidermis. Where sensation in her bionic limbs was dull and primitive (when someone touched her arm or legs it felt someone was calling to her from across a football field), now he hoped that she and Steve would be able to actually _feel _a caress, or a bump or even an itch – the way they had before their bionics.

It had been an interesting journey, being bionic, with some unexpected side effects. One of the trickiest things was that she had to watch her weight like a hawk. Around menopause twenty extra pounds crept up on her, and she suddenly found that her giant bum spread out over her slim girlish legs in a way that was far from natural. She had to wear skirts until she dropped the weight again. Steve, being a man, was luckier. He had struggled with his weight too in recent years, but even when he got pudgy, his big torso on slim bird legs looked pretty much normal. Of course, he didn't get a giant bum - if anything, his bum receded.

The door opened and Rudy entered – older, stouter, but essentially unchanged from the man who had saved her life all those years ago. He gripped her shoulders and kissed her firmly on the cheek.

"Wonderful party you threw, Jaime – thank you so much." It didn't take keen observation to see that his smile was forced, and his eyes were sad. Rudy had sad eyes at the best of times, but this was different – there was a hollowness there – and Jaime felt her throat clench.

"It was our pleasure. And of course you deserve it." Despite the fact she was now officially worried, she decided she wouldn't ask. He would presumably come to it in his own time – and it was probably something to do with Louise. This way she would have some time to brace herself.

"Okay." Rudy said, placing his left hand in his pocket. "I'm going to show you your new skin, but I want to warn you – it's not pretty…. until you get familiar with it."

"Okay…" Jaime replied slowly.

Looking at her hard to gauge her reaction, he withdrew from his pocket a three inch square of what looked almost like animal hide – leather on one side, fur on the other.

"Whoa!" she laughed. "Have I gotten that hairy?"

He laughed and held it up in front of her. "There's the skin side." he said, pride radiating from his face.

It was indeed alarming - a square of living human skin, very much the color of her own flesh.

"Now, this is the good part." Rudy said, flipping it over, and placing it into her hand. Attached to the back side were hundreds of tiny sensors, and hanging from each sensor was a fine wire thread. "These," he said, running his fingers gently over the wires, "are your new nerves. They receive signals from the skin, pass them to your bionic nervous system, which then hands them over to your real nervous system, and on to your brain."

"Wow! Complicated."

"It is." he conceded. "I think it will take a while to feel the full benefits. A lot of sensation apparently originates in the brain – so when your brain figures out that it has new receptors and starts sending as well as receiving, I'm hoping your bionic skin will be as sensitive as your own."

"Incredible." she breathed. "And you're right – it's creepy looking."

"To be sure. Now as you might imagine, it's going to be a complex installation process. You're looking at twenty hours in the lab for the arm alone, followed by the usual grafting and healing process while your skin gets acquainted with your bionic skin. If all goes well, we'll do a leg in a couple of months, and the other after that."

"Right." Jaime replied.

"So…can you give me three days to start with?"

"With pleasure." Jaime replied. She was really none too keen to spend three days in the lab, but he didn't need to know that. "Hey – I thought you would have a whole bunch of protégées with you for this session. Where are they?"

"This technology is still top secret." He stuffed the sample back into his pocket, his expression clouded. For the moments he had been demonstrating the technology to her, he had seemed fine. Now suddenly, melancholy had slipped over him again. "Okay, he sighed, "We're going to do some tests, and this is where the protégées come in. They'll do a systems analysis on you, you will impress them greatly, and if you don't mind, you could answer their questions. How about you put on your running gear and I'll meet you out there?"

Jaime dutifully spent the next couple of hours running and lifting and gripping and squatting for lab technicians and a number of wide eyed government scientists, and another half hour answering their questions. Just as she was getting very tired of the whole thing, Rudy rescued her, informing all that he was spiriting her away for a lunch date.

They walked to their usual place, five minutes from the lab, where they picked up sandwiches and took them to a nearby park. Though Jaime was dying to know what was on Rudy's mind, she bit her lip and waited it out. She knew he would tell her (he always did) and somehow she felt he needed the conversation to be on his own terms. There was a fragility to him that worried her.

He picked up his sandwich and then put it down again. "I'm afraid I have some…some bad news, Jaime."

"I kind of figured." she said nervously.

"It's Oscar." he said.

"_Oscar_?! What about Oscar?" She had been almost sure he was going to tell her that Louise's condition was deteriorating, so she was doubly shocked that something was wrong with Oscar.

"Cancer, Jaime. He has…" Rudy cleared his throat. "pancreatic cancer."

"P-pancreatic cancer?" she stuttered, trying to get her brain to catch up with and process what Rudy's words. "What - I don't know anything about it…is it treatable?"

Rudy shook his head. " I wish I could be hopeful Jaime, but I can't. The vast majority of pancreatic cancer patients die within six months of diagnosis – and usually it's more like three. The lucky ones – less than two percent - get a couple of years at the outside."

"_Three months_?! Oh my God. This can't be. It just can't be!" She dropped her sandwich on the bench and reached for both of Rudy's hands. "He never gets sick. I don't think I've even seen him with a head cold. And now..._cancer_? And, and…you're telling me…that…there's no hope? At all?"

"Well," Rudy replied, with a resigned sigh, "he's meeting his doctor this afternoon to talk about treatment. Louise is going with him."

"You're not his doctor?" Somehow she had assumed that Rudy was everyone's doctor.

"I never have been, Jaime. He has his own GP – he's had the same doctor ever since I've known him - Dr. Steiner. Unfortunately I believe he's in the process right now giving up his practice to a young colleague."

"But will he get the best care? There must be something..." Her mind could not accept that there was not a way to save him. It wasn't possible. After living in this world of medical miracles for so many years, she couldn't believe that there wasn't another ready and waiting when needed. "Can't you do anything? Don't you know someone who can help? You _must_, Rudy."

He shook his head violently, becoming agitated. "There's _nothing_, Jaime. I've been looking. I can't find a single credible experimental treatment - just the usual quackery. Pancreatic cancer is always discovered too late, and the spine is usually involved. I want to believe otherwise, but it's my honest opinion that it's a death sentence."

She was no stranger to loss – her parents when she was sixteen and then Helen and Jim in recent years – but she had never lost a peer – and even though Oscar was older, he still felt like a contemporary. Here she was, supposedly an intelligent and realistic adult – one who counseled others through loss, and her mind was kicking and screaming and resisting this news for all it was worth. Like Louise said "Nobody gets out of here alive", but somehow it didn't leave her any more prepared. Gripping Rudy's hands tightly, she counseled herself to breathe.

"I can't… _believe_ this." she murmured. As she spoke she lifted her eyes up to the tops of the trees, to the hazy grayish sky above. There was no beam of light, no silvery backlit cloud up there, heavenward. Just emptiness.


	4. Chapter 4

"Hallo?" he called, as he opened the front door.

"Hallo, dear!" she replied, from the direction of the kitchen. Her voice was strong and energetic – she had had a good day.

Rudy slung his trench coat on the coat rack and made his way to the kitchen. There he found his wife seated at the table, peering at some sort of chart, pencil and highlighters in hand. Louise had always said her spirit animal was the raccoon, and in recent years it had become truer than ever. Her once curly brown hair had turned completely grey, and she wore it in a pixie cut. She had the darting, fine hands of a raccoon, and as her figure had rounded out after menopause, she took to wearing tunics and skirts, giving her the appropriate raccoon-like girth. Her dark eyes were as keen as ever, (when he was angry with her they became 'beady') and to complete the picture, those eyes now looked through a pair of very large, black rimmed glasses.

Ohhh, honey…" she said, rising out of her chair, "you look beat." She took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. He was wearing that tragic look he got when he was overwhelmed. "Let me get you a glass of wine."

"I won't refuse." Rudy sighed, throwing himself down. "What's this?" he asked, pulling the chart toward him.

"That's a schedule I'm putting together for Oscar. I want someone with him every night during treatment to make sure he's eating and taking his medications. I'm calling friends to take shifts, and I'm counting on Steve and Jaime and Russ and Callahan as regulars, along with me, of course. I thought I might try Jim and Kate to see if they could manage it. I don't want them going over with the baby, because I think it will be too much for him."

"Might be too much for him anyway." Rudy chuckled. "Is he in favor of this plan?"

"Oh, he has no say at all." she said brusquely. "And you're off the hook too - you're too busy."

"Do you think you could ASK before you decide people's lives for them?!" Calm one moment, up a tree the next – this was one of Rudy's patented explosions. They were a regular occurrence these days. "You're deciding for ME if and how I'M going to help my best friend!" he added in furious disbelief. "Patronizing!"

Louise took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling for a moment before fixing him with 'the look'. Only years of training taught her to keep her mouth shut. He could be downright nasty in these moments, and it had taken her a long time to see through her own indignation to understand the guilt and hurt in him that always caused these things. He was a sensitive soul, her Rudy, prone to feeling as though he should fix every problem that crossed his path – and when he couldn't, he blew like the fiercest geyser.

He was right, of course - she knew that too. She _did_ herd him (and everyone else), but she wasn't going to change now. For one thing, Rudy wasn't _capable _of making normal everyday decisions without dithering to distraction, and she wasn't going to sit around and watch that particular agony when she could be getting things done.

He huffed out of the room and returned some minutes later, having changed his clothes, and slumped into a kitchen chair.

"I want to help." he said sadly. "I can't save his life, but I want to help _somehow_."

"It's too much, Rudy, you know it's too much. You're not in the first bloom of youth, you know, and you'll be no help to anybody if you take on more. Besides, _I _need you." This was Louise's ace in the hole. She did need him, and his first responsibility was to her.

He nodded, resigned. "Sorry." he sighed.

"Darling, look, he'll just get twitchy, because he would rather you were in your lab, where you're supposed to be..."

"I suppose." Rudy sighed. If he were honest with himself, he was in some part relieved. Between his new found fame in medical research circles, Oscar's cancer diagnosis, and most taxing of all, Louise's Parkinson's Disease, he hadn't had a peaceful moment in some time.

Louise sat down next to him, pulled the chart back under her nose and regarded it through her bifocals. Rudy watched closely as she reached for her wine glass. Though the tremor was slight and had not gotten worse, he still felt that familiar wave of terror and sadness. He took a large mouthful of wine and set down his glass too forcefully.

She started and looked up, her eyes flicking over him, likely reading his every thought. She knew what he was going to say, and he knew exactly what she would say in return.

When she had been diagnosed with Parkinson's, Rudy immediately contacted every friend he had in medical research to see if anyone anywhere had even a whiff of a breakthrough in treatment. Remarkably, as it turned out, Dr. Michael Marchetti, whom Rudy had not seen in years, had achieved some very promising results through surgery. When he came home that evening in a high state of excitement, full of hope, Louise shut him down.

"No." she said, in no uncertain terms. "I think there are some people ahead of me in line – that Michael J. Fox, for instance."

He had begged – he had even wept, but she hadn't relented, and he knew she never would.

"Darling, I am seventy six years old. Likely something else will kill me before the Parkinson's does. Besides, I'm fine."

_Fine now._ Rudy thought again as he looked at her.

She smiled at him, and lifted her glass in a toast. He smiled ruefully, and lifted his glass to meet hers.

"Here's to Oscar." she said.

In a few short days, Louise successfully implemented her plan. The color coded chart was emailed out to Oscar's friends. Every participant was given an evening, and they were to make sure he was fed if he was hungry and well looked after if he was sick. The younger participants (anyone under fifty, in this group) expressed optimism, encouraging Oscar to think positively, vowing that he would be the exception to the rule. Older friends kept their own counsel. Some hoped tentatively for the best, others prepared for the worst.

--------

As usual, Jaime spent the last few minutes at her office puttering. Sometimes she sorted drawers, or dusted, or rearranged the dried flowers in the waiting room. It was an important ritual, as it helped her ease out of her workday and back into her private life. Right now, Mrs. Z. was still rolling around her brain.

"You know what really gets me?" Mrs. Z said, her face purple and puffy from copious tears, "Not only do I run the whole show and look after _every_ damned thing, on top of it all I have to make sure he feels like a _man_. It has to appear that he's in control. In exchange, he might cut the lawn occasionally. Otherwise, he does as he likes, and I do everything else."

_So many divorces!_ Jaime sighed to herself. They were taxing and tiring and difficult to resolve satisfactorily – especially when there were children involved. Right now it seemed like half her practice was divorces.

As she rearranged her books according to height, she contemplated what to serve Oscar for dinner. This was her first night on duty. He had started chemo two days earlier; Louise had seen him through the first day, and Russ attended him through the second. When Russ called to give her the lay of the land, he reported that Oscar was almost unfazed by the treatment, and embarrassed by what he perceived as unnecessary babysitting.

She had done some research into foods that fight cancer, and had several good dishes in mind. She just wasn't sure he would like them, and as his stomach might be delicate, it could be a tricky balance. Somehow she had to find the right combination of tempting and healthful.

When Steve called her name from the front door, she nearly jumped out of her skin – she hadn't been expecting him, or anyone else, at this hour.

"Why isn't the door locked?" he demanded as he entered the room, wearing that knotted expression that usually went with his safety concerns.

"Well, because I was hoping somebody might barge in and rape and murder me." she replied coolly, carefully disguising her shock of a moment earlier.

"Not funny." Steve replied, his frown deepening. "Sweetheart, you've got to protect yourself. Bionics won't help you against men with guns."

"And I'm not going to let fear dictate my life." she replied. Every now and then they acted out this little script, word for word. Unless someone opted to stop saying their lines, it usually ended in a spat.

He sighed and looked her over, as though he were sizing up a formidable opponent. "I don't want you to be fearful." he said carefully. "But could you be… cautious?"

This was a diversion from the script, and it appeased her. "Yes." she conceded, giving him a hello kiss, "I can do cautious."

It appeared he had forgotten Jaime's assignment at Oscar's house for the evening. He thought she might be tired of cooking, and wondered if they might go out for dinner at _Lucio's_.

When she reminded him of her date, he decided to come along. Though Jaime agreed, she feared it was a mistake. For one thing, she had never enjoyed the company of both men at the same time – she wasn't quite sure why. She had also thought she might be able to talk to Oscar about his diagnosis, and that wouldn't happen if Steve were there. He was very upset and deeply rattled by Oscar's illness – and the way Jaime could tell was that he flatly refused to talk about it, or even acknowledge it. He was not a man who could be pushed into expression of his feelings, especially on very deep and painful issues.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, she was right. The evening was uncomfortable from beginning to end. The food was good – she made a mild chicken curry with turmeric (a known cancer combatant), but the company was terrible. Oscar was darkly silent, and Jaime suspected that if he might have been able to tolerate the company of one person, two people tipped him over into ill humor.

They left immediately after dinner. Oscar clearly was well enough to look after himself, so they were not needed, and apparently not wanted either. Jaime decided right then and there that all her future visits would be made solo.


	5. Chapter 5

Though the patient continued to grumble about the arrangement, secretly Oscar was pleased and touched that his friends would go to these lengths for him. Being accustomed to solitude, it took him a week get over feeling invaded, and then he began to enjoy the company. When Russ was on duty they spent the evenings commiserating about all that was wrong in Intelligence these days. Russ had moved to the NSB a decade earlier to take over Jack Hansen's job when Hansen moved up to the directorship. Russ cooked up simple but credible meals, usually involving steak. When Steve came he brought take out and they watched sports. Louise brought stews and casseroles and shepherd's pie, and they would go over the prosaic business of his treatment schedule and his appointments, occasionally venturing into deeper discussions about mortality. Sometimes Rudy joined them for the last hour of the evening, and Oscar would encourage them both to drink his scotch – somebody had to drink it, and at during treatment he was not allowed. His nephew Jim and wife Kate did shifts only once or twice, being fully occupied with a young family. Oscar was glad it was no more than that. They both had the frenetic energy of people with very busy lives, and bustle did not suit him these days. Callahan was perhaps his most irritating caregiver. She talked incessantly, fussing about her failings as a parent (she and Russ had a daughter and a son, both teenagers) and if she wasn't fussing about her kids she was fussing over him. Fortunately she compensated with her excellent cooking.

His favorite caregiver (not surprisingly) was Jaime. When she came, she cooked him murderously healthy vegetarian food, full of dark green leafy vegetables and grains he had never heard of before, which he ate dutifully – as much as he could stomach, anyway. She always had a pile of work to do, so they sat together in his living room, she dividing her attention between a stack of files and a laptop, while he, on his laptop, dealt with the usual swamp of work that awaited him every night. Sometimes they chatted, or he tried to make her laugh with a joke. He was always careful to pick out some pleasant, unobtrusive music to listen to, and when he glanced up from his screen he was able to imagine for a moment that this was his life, and it gave him a tiny thrill.

One evening between treatments, Louise decided to exercise her mania for gardening, and picked up twelve flats of annuals for Oscar's back garden. She avoided the perennials completely – tried to ignore their very existence. All that mattered was right _now_ – there was no next year, when the revived plant would poke its head up through the earth, unobserved by the owner of the garden. She could not think of next year, and of the awful things that would happen between now and then.

She brought with her the pad (for arthritic knees) she had ordered from her favorite gardening catalogue, and as she dug, Oscar, from the comfort of a lawn chair, tapped the plants out of their containers and handed them to her. Usually midway late in the week he was still depleted from treatment but no longer sick, and tonight he was pleased to be feeling especially fine. He thought he might even enjoy his food. This activity was a welcome break from the other projects he and Louise had been engaged in. Bit by bit, when he was strong enough, they had been going through his possessions, sorting, throwing out, labelling - so that he might get his life in order before he left it altogether. He would be visiting his lawyer to sign the will within the week, and when that was done, Oscar figured he would feel properly prepared - except for funeral arrangements. But there was still time for that, and he needed to ponder that subject further. For now, he was happy to put those concerns aside. It didn't matter to him much anyway - after all, it wasn't as though he was going to _be _there.

They talked about nothing for a while, but eventually Louise could be relied upon to venture into weighty territory. She, like Oscar, was facing the end of her life – and though her end was likely further away than his, she could still see it coming. It was a relief to her to be able to speak with someone who didn't wince every time she wanted to acknowledge the truth.

"Regrets?" she asked.

Oscar was well enough acquainted with her conversational style to know she was not referring to the fact he had just traumatized a pansy trying to remove it from its container.

"Regrets." he repeated. "Of course. You know me…"

"I know your usual pile." she replied. "Not those. I'm talking about the regrets that come into focus when you've…well, when you're dying. Do you have any?"

"I know what you're talking about." Plucking a yellow leaf from the next pansy, he gave the question some thought, finally saying, "Lots. Lots of regrets. I wish I'd been braver. I wish I'd had more fun."

"You're plenty brave!"

"Mmm…not in all ways. I think you know that."

"Haven't you had fun?"

"I have…but I wish I'd taken fun more seriously, if you know what I mean."

"Oscar, honey, you miss the point." Louise laughed, squeezing his knee with a dirty, gloved hand. "That's the one thing you _shouldn't _take seriously."

"Okay, let me rephrase that then – I wish I hadn't taken everything so damned seriously."

"Gotcha."

He stared at a seedling for a moment before pushing it out of the container. "Most of all I wish…I wish I'd had, well - a personal life…you know what I mean."

Louise sat back on her heels and wiped her forehead, leaving a streak of dirt. "I do." she said seriously. "I wish you had too."

"I wish I'd taken time off – learned how to relax, for Chrissakes. I wish I…had someone."

Louise felt the sting of a tear in her eye, which she blinked away. She was not going to put him in the position of having to comfort her. "Well," she said quietly, "I've always thought of you as my second string husband, if that helps."

He laughed, his face opening into that big gorgeous grin of his. "It does, and I hope you know how much your friendship means to me," Reaching over, he patted her shoulder. "and I know you won't be offended if I tell you that it's not quite the same."

"I s'pose not." she chuckled. "You would have been a _terrible_ husband, you know that don't you?"

"I know, I know. You've said it before – Captain Ahab. I haven't forgotten that crack you made – what was it – thirty years ago?"

She shrugged, clearly not ready to rescind the comment, and pointed to the next flat of seedlings. He pulled them closer to himself, plucked the first from the tray, pushed it from its pot, and handed it to her.

"I guess you're right…" he said reluctantly, "that's certainly how I was when I was young, but as I got older…if things had been… different…with…the right woman… I might even have been good husband."

She smiled sadly as she dropped the little plant into the ground. "It kills me that only Rudy and I know what a hopeless romantic you are, Oscar."

"Well…she might have some idea now too." he said cryptically.

Louise sat up again, regarding him with an inquiring frown.

"At the party at their house…I was half cut and, well, feeling sorry for myself, and I went into the kitchen when she was in there alone and told her she should have married me."

Louise's jaw dropped. "You didn't! What did she say?"

"I don't really remember. I didn't hang around to find out. I went back into the living room and avoided her for the rest of the evening. We haven't spoken of it since."

"My God – what if she told Steve? Wouldn't _that_ be interesting?"

"I don't think she would."

"Huh." said Louise, still trying to imagine what sort of repercussions that statement might have. "Stirring the pot - you old dog. On the other hand, I can't think of any fifty plus women who wouldn't be deeply flattered by a confession like that from a man like you."

"Oh yeah. Nobody can resist a septuagenarian. I feel really stupid."

"Well, that's sometimes what happens when you actually let someone know how you feel. You're vulnerable."

"I know, I know." he said, waving her off. "I don't need _that _lecture again."

"I've never quite approved of your unrequited love, you know - or anybody's unrequited love. After a couple of years it starts to seem…unhinged. How long have you been harboring that one? Twenty five years or so?"

"Unhinged, huh?" Oscar repeated, with a laugh. "Is that professional terminology?"

"I'm retired now." Louise replied, lifting her chin defiantly. "I can say what I like without couching it in terminology. It's a choice, Oscar. You made a choice."

"Well it didn't feel like a choice to me. And I haven't exactly pined my life away." He couldn't help but feel defensive. "In fact I've kept a tight lid on it. I don't think Jaime had any idea until that party."

"You have too pined, whether you were discreet about it or not. I know the truth, you know." Louise threw her hands up in frustration. "Such a waste! You_ could _have found someone else if you'd put your mind to it." With an extra burst of vigor she dug her spade deep and turned a chunk of earth over, tapping it to break it up. "I don't think you ever really tried."

He shrugged noncommittally. "Well, I would have been a lousy husband anyway, right?"

"You idealize marriage, you know."

"I have you two in front of me – a shining beacon of marital bliss!"

Louise chortled, knowing full well that he had witnessed plenty of dust ups over the years. "We have a good marriage. But as you know, there have been rough patches, Oscar, mighty rough."

"Do _you_ have regrets?"

"Oh yes." she said, almost immediately. "Kids, for one – but then I've regretted that for years." She cocked her head to survey her work, and immediately decided she had dug the front row too far to the right. Sighing, she set about correcting the mistake. "I guess like you, I regret cowardice – all those times I shied away from something out of fear. Laziness – that's another one."

Oscar laughed in disbelief. "Laziness?!"

"And I regret watching those damned reality shows, though I still do it on occasion." She paused and straightened her back. "Though I wish had a few more wild times in my youth, and perhaps found him later, I don't regret Rudy - not for a minute. He can be a terrible pain in the ass, but I adore the man."

"See." Oscar said, "There you go."

"If it's any consolation…and I probably shouldn't tell you this…but you were right."

"Right about what?"

"Oh, sorry." Louise said, realizing she had switched subjects without warning. "She should have married you."

"What?" Oscar was astonished. He sat up very straight and stared at his old friend. "You're kidding."

"Look," Louise said, as though readying herself for an argument, "I know Steve is a friend of yours and a stand up guy and a patriot and a hero and a near genius and all that, but he's a man's man – not a woman's man."

"You've got to be joking!" Oscar said with an incredulous guffaw, "He's famously successful with women. They can't stay away from him – or at least they couldn't twenty years ago."

"That's not what I'm talking about. In fact, a man who is a good friend to women is most likely not the one who has a phalanx of conquests."

"Well, you should see the dreamy looks he's received over the years. You might change your mind."

"Ah!" Louise said dismissively, "That's a certain kind of charisma. Charisma isn't worth a damn. He's a slap-on-the-back, good ol' boy, best buddy to men, and quite likely a pain in the ass at home. Those kinds of men are _always_ waging a low grade battle of the sexes on some front. He's picked a woman who can handle him, but still – I imagine it's tiresome."

"Are you sure that's fair?" Oscar asked, feeling affronted on Steve's part.

"No." Louise said frankly, sitting back on her heels. "But I've never hit it off with him, and I suspect it's because I come on too strong and don't fit his idea of 'feminine'." She shrugged. "I could be making it up, but I don't think so."

"But he loves Jaime – I know he does."

"Oh, of course. I'm not saying he's without feeling. In fact he'd probably be reduced to a gelatinous puddle without her." She pointed her trowel at him. "See, _you _are a woman's man. You know how to have a friendship with a woman without it depending on how much you'd like to sleep with her."

"Well, thanks, I guess – though you don't know what goes on in the recesses of my male mind." Oscar replied, with a significant raise of his eyebrows. "You're too hard on Steve – and you don't know him like I do. He's the most honorable, gutsy, fair-minded guy I know, and he's as faithful as a bird dog to Jaime."

"And I laud him for those fine qualities." she agreed. "There's still something in there I don't care for. I suspect he's the sort of man who worries about being shown up by a woman. And by the way, if you think that after forty some odd years as a psychologist, I don't know what goes on in the recesses of the male mind - you're crazy."

"Jaime shows Steve up every day of the week!"

"You've just proved my point." Louise's tone was becoming heated. "Jaime is doing her thing, and Steve is doing his, and somehow, _her_ successes are a rebuke to_ him_. How does that make sense?"

"Mmm…" Oscar frowned, "you old feminists are awfully hard to appease."

"Damn right."

"But they're happy. Don't you think they're happy?"

"I suppose. They certainly have a bond – that long term imprinting of childhood sweethearts. I just wouldn't want it for myself, that's all." She returned to her work, and he leaned back in his lawn chair and looked up at the sky.

"I thought you said I'd make a terrible husband. Maybe I'd better stick with that idea."

Louise inwardly kicked herself. As usual she had said too much, and ironically, she had just given him something else to regret.

"The worst." she said, smiling ruefully.


	6. Chapter 6

Oscar quickly learned the price of having made himself indispensable. After the first and second treatments he still felt well enough to go into the OSI every day, where he would be presented with thousands of questions and loose ends that had to be dealt with immediately. To make matters worse, Jim Castillion approached him with a lapel-clutching desperation Oscar found insulting. He wasn't going to drop dead that minute, after all.

After the third treatment he couldn't force himself to go to work anymore. He was weakened, and dogged by nausea and lesser miseries too numerous to count. The painkillers dealt to some extent with the excruciating stabbing pain in his lower back, but they didn't fix the wandering aches and throbbings that came with the chemo. At that point Jim started coming around to the house, sometimes for as much as four hours at a time, leaving Oscar deeply exhausted. Finally he was forced to 'push Jim out of the nest' and leave him to his own devices.

This coincided with his sudden perception of 'the long view' of life, though it came and went with his strength. In the peak of health between chemo treatments, he fretted about the OSI – was Jim ready for the job, was he the right man in the first place, did he have the discretion, the horse sense, the ability to discern reality from hysteria? Then when he was weak he no longer cared at all. It was entirely unimportant. The world was going to tick along without him, and he would be freed from the hubbub, the press and noise of humanity, pushing and fussing and raging all around him. He found he didn't matter very much, and to his surprise, he liked the feeling. He was, in a way, liberated.

Lately Jaime and Louise had taken to checking in on Oscar in the mornings. So after her mandatory daily 'core strength workout' with Steve, and just before work, she dropped by his house and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she let herself in. The house was dark and very quiet. She called out softly, and receiving no answer, tiptoed to the darkened bedroom. She found him there, lying half under the tangled bedding, too weak and sick to make himself comfortable. Only the bathroom light was on, and she though she suspected he had suffered through a miserable night, the scene was not as ghastly as it might have been. Apparently he still managed to be tidy when extremely ill.

"Oscar?" she murmured, grasping a shockingly cold hand as she sat on the edge of the bed. He groaned quietly, and then stiffened as he registered her presence.

"Oh, no, Jaime!" he mumbled, attempting to pull the covers up around him. "No - you go."

"Shhhh…It's okay. I've seen sick men in pajamas before." Up until this moment Oscar had always managed to look presentable when she came by. "You relax. I'm going to look after you, whether you like it or not."

As though it were the most difficult thing he had ever done, he opened his eyes and glowered at her. He was terribly pale and she had never seen him look so wretched. She forced a kindly smile on to her face to cover the sadness, and ran her hand over his clammy forehead and through his hair.

Comfort had to be the first order of business. Very carefully she got him settled under the covers, helping him shift his limbs until he was lying on his side with the covers pulled up around him.

Next she called her office and asked Janice to cancel all her appointments that morning. Then she dug a bowl from a kitchen cupboard, filled it with warm water and retrieved a washcloth from the bathroom. As best she could without disturbing him, she gently washed his face and throat, behind his ears, the back of his neck, down the center of his chest, along his forearms, wrists, and big gnarled hands. As she massaged his palms, she wondered how often he enjoyed the touch of another human being. Knowing him, it was not often – if ever.

As she left the room to return the bowl to the kitchen, she spotted a small yellow prescription bottle on the dresser. It was an anti-emetic.

Reseating herself beside him, she asked, "Oscar honey, did you take your pills? Oscar?" She couldn't tell whether he was asleep or so immobilized by discomfort he was unable to answer.

Finally he replied, his voice gravelly and faint, "Forgot."

"Oh, honey." she chided gently. "Let's get one into you right now, okay?"

It could have been a real wrestling match to move a man his size into sitting position. For Jaime, it was as easy as if he had been a child. She popped the pill in his mouth and held a glass of water to his lips. He drank reluctantly, shaking like a leaf, obviously afraid he would throw up.

She opened the window and drew the curtains slightly, bringing freshness and light into the dark, stuffy room. At that moment she realized it had been Steve's shift the previous evening. He was supposed to have made sure Oscar took his medications.

"He's fine." she recalled Steve saying, as he kicked off his shoes in the front hallway. "Looked good. Told me he was going to bed." How was it, she wondered, that men could be so entirely useless?

The kitchen was tidy (so Steve had not been entirely idle) and there was even some food in the fridge she could cook up in the unlikely event Oscar should get hungry. Someone (Louise or Callahan probably) had brought some gorgeous tulips that were now in full bloom on the kitchen table.

To pass the time she dusted the living room, and spent twenty minutes scanning the newspaper. Tulips in hand, she then went back to Oscar's bedroom. To her great relief his color had improved, and when he opened his eyes they looked clearer and less pained. She placed the vase where he could see them, and perched on the edge of the bed.

"Better?" she asked. He nodded weakly. "What can I do for you? Water? Do you want me to put some music on? Or the TV?"

He frowned and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Am I bugging you? Do you want me to leave you alone?"

"No…keep me company." he whispered. "Work…read…just…keep me company."

She felt her heart wrench at his request. What a horrible, lonely night it must have been for him. In a few moments she had set herself up beside him on the bed, her usual pile of case notes and half written reports beside her. Oscar turned on his side, facing her, and drifted back to sleep.

First on the pile were notes from yesterday's final session; a Mr. P – yet another divorce. "When I met her," he had said, "I knew she was _the one_ – little did I know she was the one who would ruin my life."

She cast her mind over her session and the strategies she would try, scribbled them in point form onto loose leaf, placed the sheet in the file and closed it. One down. Oscar was now breathing steadily, in what she hoped was a peaceful sleep – he looked peaceful, she thought, tilting her head to study his face. Every time she'd seen him in these last few years she thought he looked more and more like a grand old Indian chief in a tintype photograph. He had the same stony dignity, the heavy, handsome features, the fundamental incorruptibility.

Had he really meant that line – that she should have married him? This was the first moment she had allowed herself to contemplate it.

She realized now, of course, why the mood of that party had been so peculiar. Oscar had been diagnosed that day, and had told Rudy and Louise when he picked them that evening. No wonder they had all been out of sorts. And under those circumstances, she could see that Oscar's normal discretion might have left him.

Once they had been close, but that was a long time ago. She had finally pushed him away – she had to. He always demanded too much. He demanded almost as much from Jaime as he did from himself. And because he was such a good man, genuinely trying to do good in the world, and because she was loyal and because she believed in him, she always complied - until she simply couldn't take it anymore - and she pushed back. Amazingly he let her go, and though they stayed in touch, a distance grew between them. In recent years, whenever she saw him, he was brusque and steely and businesslike. She took it personally until Rudy told her that he was that way with everybody.

She knew the truth, of course - he loved her – even from a distance – and he had loved her for a very long time, and had never truly let on until he was dying. She couldn't quite decide how to feel about that remarkable fact. It was incredibly touching, of course, but it was burdensome too.

Jaime sighed and leaned back, still gazing at the sleeping man. There was something more in her heart, if she swept away all the other thoughts and feelings and let it come to light. It was love. It had always been there - acknowledged once in her carriage house, in a painful and vulnerable moment for both of them – and then never mentioned again.

It was almost impossible to imagine herself as Oscar's wife. He was so obsessively devoted to work that she couldn't picture a domestic existence with him. On the other hand, he had always made room for her. And would she have rejected him if he'd ever made a romantic gesture? It was hard to know – hard to cast her mind back to 1977. She had always found him attractive, and she'd always enjoyed his company, and she had ruminated on the possibility numerous times. But if he had proposed? She would have rejected him. Back then, she had that gap in her memory – it made her feel as though she didn't quite know her own heart and mind, and that hidden inside that gap was the lost the love of her life. Ultimately, it was what stopped her from marrying Chris – something that hurt him deeply and brought her endless guilt. She should have married him or let him go. When her memory came back and she married Steve, she thought that "gap" feeling would leave her, but it never had. What if Oscar was 'the one' – what if she had it all wrong all these years?

She couldn't help but laugh at herself. It had been a while since she had revisited the notion of a true and perfect love. Even before she had married Steve, even though she believed deeply in their relationship, she had come to terms with the fact there was no such thing. Marriage was the union of one flawed being to another, forged on lots of tongue biting and compromising, and in the process each participant hopes that it will provide a safe haven for that weak, needy, naked inner self, and the right sort of nourishment for the brave, outgoing self. It was a tall order for two imperfect people.

She and Steve didn't quite achieve that ideal for each other, but hopefully it was close enough. She loved him - he was family. And he loved her too. Sometimes she wished they had more in common – that they voted the same way or shared more interests, but no matter what, they had their foundation – over half a century of shared memories and experiences. She was the only one left in the world who remembered him when he was ten.

She sighed and looked at the stack of files. All these ridiculous musings were getting her exactly nowhere. Gently, so as not to wake him, she caressed the neck and the shoulder of her other lost love (it was a rather poignant thought) and then opened up her laptop and got to work.

A couple of hours later, just as Jaime was reaching the bottom of the pile, Oscar stirred and rolled onto his back, and opened his eyes.

"You're looking better." she said quietly.

"Mmm." He frowned and slung his arm over his eyes, and Jaime assumed he was going back to sleep.

Just as she was contemplating whether she should leave for a few hours, he spoke, his voice rough and gravelly. "I'm quitting…treatment."

Jaime felt her stomach drop. This was it – he was waving the white flag. The misery of chemo was not worth the little time it might buy him. It was a sensible decision, but hard to hear. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." He cleared his throat. "I can't…"

"I know. I understand." There was more silence. Finally she ventured to say, "We can get you onto some alternative therapies, you know. I've been doing some reading…"

"No, Jaime." he interrupted, with surprising firmness, "I've had enough."

This statement rendered her silent, breathless and slightly nauseous. A breeze riffled through the curtains, and a small dog barked insistently outside. These normal things suddenly seemed strange and wrong. The world ought to be quiet in moments like this.

"You've got to _fight _Oscar." she protested.

"Why?" he said. "I'm an old man. I've got to die sometime."

"But you're not old – not that old. Wouldn't you like more time?"

He seemed to consider the question carefully. "I suppose… but what would I do with it? I'd work. I've forgotten how to do anything else."

Jaime wanted to protest, but somehow she couldn't get the words out. Instead she let out a long, unhappy sigh.

"Bin Laden." he murmured. "I thought if we caught Bin Laden that maybe the world would start spinning properly on its axis again, that everything would make sense again - and I could retire with my head held up."

"Your head held up?" she repeated in disbelief. "Oscar, you are the _best_. When I listen to the news and start feeling disgusted with Washington I just think of you, and I know that there's goodness and honor and decency out there. Really, I do."

"Well, thanks Babe." he replied, sounding entirely unconvinced.

He sat up, and declared he was going to shower. Jaime was nervous about letting him do so much as stand up on his own, so she offered to help, an offer he laughed off.

"I'd like to preserve some morsel of dignity." he said. With great effort he got to his feet, and at a glacial pace made his way to the bathroom. Once she heard the shower running, Jaime cried.

______

Steve knew the second he saw her that he was in for it.

"What?" he blurted nervously.

"You left him," Jaime spat, "without making sure he'd taken the anti-emetic. When I found him he had been throwing up all night. You should have seen him – he was so _sick_! What were you thinking?"

"Well, I'm sorry!" Steve replied, sounding more defensive than apologetic. "He's a big boy, Jaime! He can take his own pills!" He glared at her uncertainly for a moment, shoved his hands in his pockets and walked out of the room.

Jaime's impulse was to follow and berate him further, to try to make some dent in that thick head of his, but she stopped herself. As much as she needed to blow off steam, it would just make things worse.

She set about preparing dinner, banging pots on the stove, slamming cupboard doors shut. Chopping onions calmed her down, the sting in her eyes providing distraction from her anger. Just about that time Steve reappeared in the kitchen.

"Look," he said, "I am sorry. I feel terrible that Oscar was up puking his guts out all night. It's just that I…I'm not much good at sitting around while … well…I can't just sit there watching him die by inches."

"I'm not exactly having the time of my life either." she replied.

"I know. But you can do it – I get twitchy. I'd be okay if I could take him out somewhere, or do something for him, but just sitting there – I can't stand it."

What he said was absolutely true. Perhaps it had been unfair to ask it of him. Jaime wiped her watery eyes on her upper arm and blinked at him. "Never one for the desk job, huh?" she conceded.

"I guess."


	7. Chapter 7

Two days later Jaime found herself at Oscar's house again. It was Callahan's turn, but she had come down with a nasty head cold and didn't want to come near the patient.

In truth, Jaime was happy to go back. She valued her time with Oscar, in a sad sort of way. He greeted her in pajamas and bathrobe, and though he was fragile, he had come a long way since she had left him two days before. He also seemed pleased to see her.

She had barely put down her purse when, for the hundredth time, the piano in the next room caught her eye. She always wondered if he played it, but it only just now occurred to her to ask. As she passed into the living room, he followed, albeit slowly.

"Do you actually play this thing?" Jaime asked, passing her hand over the lid.

"You think I keep it for decoration?"

"It could be an heirloom. Well then, let's hear you - come on. Twenty five years and I've never heard you play a note." She lifted her chin as a sort of challenge, and thought how rotten it was of her to push him. Somehow she knew he wouldn't mind.

"All right." He eased himself on to the bench and she seated herself beside him. He gazed at her thoughtfully. "Some Cole Porter, maybe." Lifting his hands to the keys, he began to play.

It was a pretty little introduction and he played it flawlessly. Then to add to her amazement, he sang…

_My story is much too sad to be told, _

_But practically everything leaves me totally cold._

_The only exception I know is the case_

When I'm out _on a quiet spree_

_Fighting vainly the old ennui_

_And I suddenly turn and see…_

_Your fabulous face._

Jaime was dazzled, and realized she was grinning like an idiot. He turned to her and laughed a little, his eyes warm and a little mischievous. Right then she felt it – that old magic they used to have – the spark.

_I get no kicks from champagne,_

_Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all,_

_So tell me, why should it be true,_

_That I get a kick out of you…_

_I get a kick every time I see_

_You standing there before me,_

_I get a kick though it's clear to me_

_You obviously don't adore me…_

The song was upbeat. He played it at a clip, but like most Cole Porter songs, the sadness came through anyway.

Jaime felt herself crumpling inside, and she leaned against him. He stopped playing.

"I don't want you to die." she said, haltingly.

"Well," he sighed, "I appreciate that, but I think it's a done deal."

"You're so _calm. _How can you be so calm? I'm not calm!"

"I guess that means I'm ready."

"Do you believe in an afterlife?" she asked, sitting up again. If he wasn't crumpling, she couldn't very well crumple.

"Mmm. I think my afterlife will be in your memories of me. So …try to think positively, okay?"

She smiled sadly and nodded. "I will."

"Do you believe in an afterlife?" he asked gently, ducking his head to look into her eyes.

"Yeah." she replied. "I do. At least I think I do. Not fluffy clouds and angels, but I do believe in energies - that we become part of the big picture. I can't believe it just… ends_._"

"Hmm. I don't know. You know me. I like rational explanations."

"Well science is never going to answer that one, Oscar."

"Can't argue with you there." He was so relaxed, so unburdened by the thought of death he might as well have been talking about the weather. "Hey - how about you play me something? You've never played for me either, you know."

"I haven't? All right. Fair's fair." It had been a while – she stared at the ceiling a moment, trying to recall a song she knew by heart. The one that came to mind off the top of her head was too melancholy, but it was pretty, and this was not a moment to dither.

Not surprisingly, her voice sounded thin and emotional and quivery to her. Fortunately it was a Neil Young song, and as his voice was thin and quivery too, it suited it just fine.

_When you were young_

_and on your own_

_How did it feel_

_to be alone?_

_I was always thinking_

_of games that I was playing._

_Trying to make_

_the best of my time._

_But only love_

_can break your heart_

_Try to be sure_

_right from the start_

_Yes only love_

_can break your heart_

_What if your world_

_should fall apart?_

Feeling self conscious, she finished with a flourish, though there were still verses to be sung. Perhaps he'd had enough anyway.

"Beautiful." he smiled. "Really beautiful."

"You're generous." She removed her hands from the keys. _Try to be sure right from the start…_

"Listen," he said, sounding one low chord with his left hand. "I owe you an apology."

"What for?"

"That…what I said to you at your party…about how you should have married me. It was inexcusable."

"Well…apology accepted," Jaime shrugged, "but not necessary. I'm…flattered." This was only a thin proximity of what she felt, and it almost embarrassed her to have said it.

Oscar pensively sounded another chord. Jaime responded in kind.

"You meant it, didn't you?"

"No. I was drunk."

"In _vino veritas_."

"No." Oscar insisted. "You married the best of men – the best."

"I know." She punched out something a little dissonant on the keys, and shook her head lightly. "Sometimes your dogged sense of loyalty can get tiresome, you know. Tell me. Just between you and me."

Oscar replied with a pretty succession of three chords. "If you'd married me, look what you would have ended up with."

"I'm looking." she replied. "Come on."

He sat back and regarded her carefully. "I…mmm…" He winced, obviously struggling. "The dying don't necessarily have the right to mess with the living, you know."

She sighed and gave him a wilting look.

"It…well, all I'm going to say is that it has something to do with dependence and independence – that balance. I think…we would have found a good balance."

This was an insightful comment – apparently he had perceived one of the weaknesses in her marriage. 'I thought you were happily married to the OSI." she replied flippantly, hoping to cover her real discomfort. Were she and Steve so transparent?

"I told you I shouldn't say anything."

"I'm fine." she protested. "This is such an emotional situation. I don't know how you can be so cool."

"Can I say something?" He shifted to face her, and took her hands in his. "I don't want you to be offended, but I think it's important."

"Okay...." she said uncertainly.

"Somewhere along the line, you've – I don't know how to put this – you've lost your _joy_. I thought you'd find it again when you married Steve, but you haven't."

"I feel joy." Jaime replied, struggling to veil her defensiveness.

"I know – it's not that though, it's an approach to life – a zest for living, joie de vivre, an irreverence – whatever you want to call it."

"Maybe I just grew up."

"No. You were always grown up. Besides, if that's growing up, then some regression is in order. You're always giving yourself to other people – to Steve, to your patients - to me."

"You're a fine one to talk. You're not exactly a barrel of monkeys either, you know." She felt a little silly for deflecting his comments this way, but she was feeling terribly off balance.

"That's different. I never _was_ a barrel of monkeys."

"That's not true!" she protested. "We used to have fun. Don't you remember? We had a lot of laughs – a lot of fun. Remember the lengths we went to trying to ditch those horrible Carstairs?"

"I do." That familiar soft, sweet look crossed his face – a look she hadn't seen in a long time. "Listen to me. Replenish yourself, Jaime. That is my dying request. Be a little more self centered, a little more irreverent. Rediscover your inner cheekiness. Will you do that for me?"

"This isn't about me working less and spending time on Steve's boat, is it?" She suddenly had that horrible feeling of having been the topic of a critical conversation. "Because I love my work and I…"

"No no no." he interrupted gently. "It's not that – it's nothing to do with Steve. I know you love your work – but you approach it with a bloody minded determination, and you don't need to do that. Nobody can stop you, Jaime. You've made it. You can let off the gas pedal."

"Okay." she said, with a frown. "I'll see what I can do … if I can figure out what you're talking about."

"You don't have to figure it out. You just have to do it." he replied, squeezing her hands earnestly.


	8. Chapter 8

Once the news had gotten out that Oscar was not well, concerned friends and colleagues – even Presidents past and present - appeared from the woodwork, calling, writing, paying visits - paying respects. People he hadn't seen in years wrote him letters, telling him what he had meant to them. It seemed he had had a positive effect on the world after all. He would have been almost too busy if it hadn't been for Louise's rigorous management of his schedule. She began to limit distant friends to letters and phone calls, discouraging lengthy, tiring visits, while making sure he had enough time with close friends – those who loved him best.

He needed the better part of a week to recover from his final treatment, and at that point it was generally decided that fun was in order. On Saturday, Russ and Callahan took Oscar and Rudy and Louise out for a picnic in the country. They spread a blanket under a tree and commenced festivities with champagne, followed by a beautiful lunch. Callahan ceremoniously unveiled a lemon meringue pie made for exclusively for the guest of honor. As his stomach had been his enemy for weeks, Oscar tentatively took a very small piece. When he suffered no ill effects, he took another, and then another, until he had eaten half the pie. At that point he lay back on the blanket, folded his hands over his chest and fell asleep. It was deemed by all to be a successful outing.

Two days later Steve took him out on his boat, an activity Oscar always enjoyed. As he was too weak to fish, he spent the day in a deck chair, soaking up the sun and snoozing. Belinda, Steve's attractive young first mate and cook, made sure both men were topped up with seafood and beer. As usual, they didn't talk much, and that suited both of them very nicely.

On Jaime's day, Oscar made a request – that they go to the horse races together. He explained that his uncle Saul, a racetrack devotee, had taken him to Saratoga several times as a child, and he had fond memories of clutching the dollar ticket his uncle bought him in his small sweaty fist, shrieking desperately to his horse, while his uncle laughed and laughed and ruffled his hair. A couple of times his horse even won.

Jaime was hesitant about the idea – it struck her as a seedy pastime, and she wasn't much of a gambler. Gambling addicts and their unhappy families had passed through her doors – and she had seen first hand the devastation that followed addiction, so all in all, she did not approve. On the other hand, her practice provided her with countless negative examples of almost every human endeavor, and if she were to use those experiences as her life guide, she wouldn't have a life at all!

And how could she refuse him?

As she drove round the corner to his house, she saw him waiting, seated on his front steps. As he stood and walked toward her, she noted how quickly he seemed to have bounced back from that last session of chemo. He was too thin, but otherwise he appeared normal – almost _well_.

_Maybe he'll beat the odds…_ she thought, her heart fluttering with optimism - perhaps this three to six month deadline didn't apply to him – after all, the man _had_ to possess a remarkable constitution to bear up under the stresses that piled on him every day at the OSI.

Only when he sat beside her did she note the hollow look in his eyes and the slight shake in his hands, and then she remembered that he was in constant pain, despite the drugs. That tumor was pressing on his spinal column – more every day, and it would not stop. She kissed him and smiled, hoping she didn't look like she was being brave.

As soon as they arrived she was glad she had come. It was a beautiful breezy day, the air fragrant with the smell of horses and fried food. On the track, tiny jockeys clad in bright tops and white jodhpurs cantered their glossy, gorgeous mounts around and around, warming them up for the next race. Jaime suddenly felt she had forgotten just how much she loved horses. Oscar tried to show her the racing forms with which they could theoretically predict winners, but it was incomprehensible to an amateur, and she decided she would have to rely on instinct.

As the first race drew nearer, the eight participants paraded by the finish line, and Jaime eyed them all. Quite quickly she decided on a big liver chestnut named _Turf Tiller_. Of all the horses, he had the most powerful looking hindquarters. With a small private smile, she mused that this was also partly how she had chosen her husband.

Oscar, after serious consultation with his racing form, chose a horse named _Red's Grey Blue_. They made their way to the betting windows and each made five dollar bets. Jaime's horse was running at 10-1 odds and Oscar's was 5-2. Returning to the rail a minute before the race, they joined the more dissolute characters who loitered there, rather than sitting politely in the stadium seats.

As they looked out to the track and watched the horses loading into the gate she cast a glance at her old friend, and was pleased to note he looked quite content. He had a slight smile on his face and he seemed to be enjoying the fresh air. Some of the strain she had seen in his face was lifting. This was how you got through tough times, she realized – by appreciating those moments of grace -whether they lasted a second or a minute or a day. She would endeavor to remember this moment – it was not about cancer or death, it was about grace.

Then, the ring of the bell, the loud metallic clank of the gate snapping open, the stampede or horses and men as they roared past, the earth shuddering beneath them – it was thrilling. As they rounded the first turn, it was impossible to see make out her horse in the pack, nor could she understand the voice announcing the race over the intercom. At that moment Oscar pointed to the board, which was flashing the names of the three leaders. _Red's Grey Blue_ was second – and _Turf Tiller_ was not in the top three. She couldn't help herself, she grasped Oscar's arm tightly, and made a small, anxious hop. It seemed like forever, waiting for them to come round the backstretch. The railbirds (as the old reprobates were known) were calm but attentive, but Jaime was beside herself. Oscar was gripping the rail tightly, but otherwise, he looked calm. How did they do it? The low thunder grew louder. Jaime checked the leader board – _Red's Grey Blue_ had dropped to third, and _Turf Tiller_ was still not in the top three. Finally they rounded the corner – a tight pack of thunder – and on the outside, to her astonishment, Jaime could see the green and yellow checked jersey of _Turf Tiller's_ jockey – coming up the outside. Still gripping Oscar's arm, she jumped up and down, yelling his name, and as they flashed by the finish line, Jaime felt a rush of what, at that moment, was the biggest thrill of her life. _Turf Tiller_ had won by a neck.

Only after she had calmed down did she notice Oscar opening and closing his right hand and rubbing his elbow.

"Oh – my God!" she gasped, "Did I squeeze your arm too tight? Oh Oscar, I'm so sorry!"

He smiled broadly – fortunately he was more amused than injured, "It's okay, I have another one."

"Gosh, I'm sorry." she said again, rubbing his arm sympathetically. "Just don't know my own strength."

"Hey – your hand!" Oscar exclaimed. "How is it? Let me see."

Though she was anxious to get back to the betting window to see how much money she'd won, Jaime extended her "new" hand with a flourish. Just two days before she had endured her second ten hour session in the operating room, and there would be more to come – but it didn't take long for her to realize it was worth the effort. In fact she was delighted with it - astonished and grateful for every sensation it relayed to her brain. Inspired by her enthusiasm, Steve had gone in for his procedure this morning without so much as a grumble. It was true - she felt a little bit more human.

Oscar took her hand in his and examined it, turning it over, running his fingers over the palm. As always, he was amazed at how lifelike it looked and felt. As he pushed his thumb firmly over the finger pads he could feel no hint of the metal or plastics underneath. It was warm, and fully human. He shook his head in amazement, for the millionth time.

Jaime held her breath, watching the path of his fingers, registering the texture of his hand with her own. She felt as though the new pathways were already lighting up in her brain. The sensation was almost as full and vivid as if it were her own hand, and it was nothing short of wonderful.

"It's not quite perfect yet. See?" she said, spreading her fingers, "He made the fingers a tiny bit short, so he's got to recut in there and I'll have little seam lines. You won't really see them though." Sure enough, they looked slightly webbed, like a very fine glove that was half a size too small.

"That's not like Rudy." Oscar mused. "Handy when you're swimming though."

She laughed, and closed her hand around his. "Thank you." she said. "For this. Thank you. I don't think you really had to fund this experiment, but I want you to know how much I appreciate it."

"All in the name of science."

"In fact," she insisted, squeezing his hand, "thank you for everything, Oscar. For my life."

"Well, you're welcome." He'd fought so hard for that bionic program, believing it would bring the country a fantastic advantage in intelligence (and it had) and believing in the fundamental importance of the science – only to find that this was his greatest reward – the gratitude of a single saved life – this life in particular. He wanted to say thank you in return, but it sounded trite. He wanted to tell her that she had made everything worthwhile – but he'd already overstepped that boundary once and he wasn't about to do it again. He squeezed that sturdy, middle-aged hand and smiled. "Now that you're rich," he said, "will you be buying lunch?"

Her winnings were substantial, and she used only a small portion on hotdogs and beer - which she consumed with a delight that surprised her. They stayed for four races. Her overall pile diminished, but she still came out ahead with eighty dollars on her original twenty dollar betting limit. Oscar figured he made a handsome fifteen dollars. Jaime had a wonderful time – so good, in fact, that she wondered just whose benefit the outing had been for. She bellowed so loud in every home stretch she was hoarse after the second race. She bought another round of beer after the third race, and had a spirited debate with one of the old track reprobates about whether or not a lady ought to drink beer. Oscar stood nearby and grinned, hands in his pockets.

It was over too soon. She had to be home by six – Michael and family would be arriving at 6:30, and she had promised Steve she would be there. She dropped Oscar off with a quick kiss on the cheek, and made it through the front door at 6:25. The conference was going on in Boston without her, but she didn't mind just now. She had had fun – and that was consolation enough for the moment.


	9. Chapter 9

As usual, Louise accompanied him to the appointment. It was a formality really, because he was through with doctors. He would look to them for pain management, but that was all. They sat together in the examining room in companionable silence for ten minutes or so, awaiting the physician, who was late. Oscar appreciated her support – there would be no desperate attempts to prolong his life from her.

When the doctor entered, it was not Dr. Steiner – it was his replacement, a man about half Oscar's age. Louise noted he was handsome first, before casting a disapproving glance over his clothes – golf shirt and pleated khakis. In her view, a doctor ought to wear a tie.

"Mr. Goldman." he said, extending his hand, "Dr. Lipinski. I'm sorry to make you change horses in midstream of your treatment, but Dr. Steiner decided to leave a little earlier than he intended. This is your wife?"

"No," Oscar said, "this is somebody else's wife – Louise Wells – a dear friend of mine, and my medical advocate."

Dr. Lipinski greeted her and sat down, immediately asking how Oscar was feeling.

"I'm quitting chemo." Oscar replied.

"May I ask why?"

"Because it's killing me, and as I'm dying anyway, I don't much see the point."

"Hmm." Dr. Lipinski said, dropping his eyes to the file sitting open on his lap. "I must apologize, Mr. Goldman, I 'm playing catch up here… if you could just give me a moment." As Louise watched, the young man flipped back and forth through the pile of colored papers, occasionally moving a sheet to the front or the back. Dr. Lipinski frowned, and the shuffling of papers became more intense. After some minutes of this, he looked up, and asked a highly unlikely question.

"Your given name is Oscar, correct? May I ask if anyone ever calls you David?"

"David?" Oscar repeated, glancing at Louise. "Ah…no. Nobody calls me David. Except…" he added, suddenly recollecting, "Dr. Steiner called me David a couple of weeks ago…it was a slip."

Dr. Lipinski slapped the file closed and rose suddenly. "Would you excuse me for a moment?" Without waiting for a response, he practically bolted from the room.

"This is novel." Louise muttered.

Lipinski returned five minutes later, stiff and serious, now holding two files in his hands.

"Do you know a David Goldman? Any relation?" His face was set into a very grim expression.

"No." Oscar replied, irritated. "Why do you ask?"

Dr. Lipinski shifted nervously. His professional composure had been replaced by an intense, squirming discomfort. "I don't know how to tell you this, Mr. Goldman, but…it would appear that your file has been mixed up with another patient's." He paused to try to draw in a deep breath. "On your initial test results, it seems that "D Goldman" was printed carelessly and looks exactly like "O Goldman." I don't know how the error wasn't caught before I'm afraid Dr. Steiner…well, I hope you will see this as good news…" he gulped, "but it appears you do not have pancreatic cancer – the source of your back ache is not a tumor – it appears to be a herniated disk on your L5 vertebra."

Oscar turned to Louise, and they gaped at each other.

"How is this possible?" Louise sputtered. "There were x-rays, a CT scan, a biopsy…" She would have continued, demanding an explanation from the young man who had none to give, if Oscar hadn't distracted her. At first he merely chuckled, but then it became a laugh, a big, guffawing, belly laugh, expelling cancer, expelling death. Oscar Goldman laughed as long and as hard as he had ever laughed in his entire life.


End file.
